On the weather map, it was nothing more than a thin line of white snaking along the border between New York’s Southern Tier and northern Pennsylvania. Here in Crooked Eddy the end of that line falls gently and turns our landscape white.

We expect no more than a dusting, though as near as Binghamton there are warnings for hazardous travel along the interstates. No worry for me, as I am tucked in here fighting a head cold, with no plans to travel further than the Town’s transfer station.

The Guild’s winter Zoom gatherings begin on Thursday evening, and I am hopeful that the coughing and hacking will subside by then. If not, perhaps a warmed combination of Catskill Bootlegger Bourbon and Falling Spring honey will soothe my throat sufficiently.

JA will reintroduce an old Jimmy Deren pattern to kick things off, and then the group will tie or not as they please and talk a bit about our season past. I will set aside some muskrat fur, Teal feathers and rusty dun hackle beforehand and see what I think of the old “50 Degrees”. The tale is that Deren, famed proprietor of New York City’s Angler’s Roost so named the fly as he had found it effective on Catskill rivers when the waters reached that prescribed temperature.

I expect I will defer to my own Catskill Adams when it comes to fishing. Natural Fox Squirrel fur provides a mixed gray and brown coloration along with the black and tan barred guard hairs to produce a rougher, spiky body. Teal flank feather wings provide the bold black and white wing barring and is more durable and more Catskill, and I dearly love Cree hackle!

I do enjoy tying the classic Catskill patterns though. While looking through a can filled with decades worth of dubbing blends the other day I found the bag of special dubbing for the Davidson Special. Guild member Seth Cavaretta carefully researched the late Mahlon Davidson’s methods and, with the able assistance of Dave Catizone, dyed some cream fox fur with willow bark to produce a good supply of this pale green fur. He was kind to bring a large amount to a Guild meeting and offer some to all present. I look forward to shedding this fog in my head and trying my hand at this old classic!

Mahlon Davidson was a gifted Catskill fly tyer, and obviously had high regard for this particular coloration. I do not believe he recorded it as having been tied for a specific hatch, though it seems to be an ideal imitation for the Green Drake to me. When I sit down to tie it, I will have long shank size 8 and 10 hooks at the ready!

Before the bright glow of sunshine was hidden by the gray of winter skies, I set out for a riverwalk today. Too much time indoors this week had left my muscles tight and my joints stiff, and I sought to remedy that.

I felt but a little of that sun’s warmth. With a cold crosswind cutting through, I pulled the hood of my down jacket up overtop the wool baseball cap.

The walk along the river is my therapy during the long Catskill winter season. It gives me some time near bright water to be alone with my thoughts, and they are often thoughts of warmer days, of dappled sunlight kissing each riffle and pool.

I can feel the cut of a cold North wind as I make the turn at the end of the public road, always wishing I had leave to continue southward, on down to Junction Pool and the beginnings of the wide Delaware. Heading back into that wind I snug the zipper on my jacket and dip my head.

I am sitting on a grassy bit of riverbank, quietly watching the pool beyond for some evidence of life out there in the lingering morning mist. There is an old rod propped against a clump of that grass, a rod much older than I. It is a Catskill rod by birth, one from the old Leonard shop to the southeast, the Mills’ family’s gift to the working man. It is a rod made to the most famous taper known along these rivers, the classic 50 DF, and with the four-weight line strung through her guides she is simply perfection.

For the past half an hour, a few gentle yellow mayflies have drifted past my watch post, no more than one every ten minutes perhaps, but that is all it takes to bring my reverie to an end and focus all of my concentration on the wide currents in the foreground. Twenty minutes on there are enough flies to count, and at last a soft but significant ring along the shade line cast by an ancient sycamore.

I walk down the bank and slip into the water so the current will carry my wavelets downstream well below that rise. I have seen that ring once more, my better vantage allowing that there is a wide, soft bulge in the surface just as the ring appears. In ten minutes, I have moved a dozen steps, and the third bulge and ring lies fifty feet away.

The line lays on the water in soft coils until the easy urging of the old rod pulls it up into the air on my back cast. One false cast aimed well downstream of the rise, a few more coils of line lifted as another back cast extends, and then line, leader and fly are willed to that certain line of drift, two feet up current from the faint trace of receding ripples that mark the trout’s lie.

At the bulge I tense, then hold for one count as the fly slips out of sight, and then the rod comes up in a terrible arc and the Hardy screams as he streaks away! If I could, I would hold that moment suspended in time, treasure it and the feeling invoked as the trout’s adrenaline becomes my own.

He is a fine brown trout, long and wide and beautiful, and he battles the straining rod with all of his wild energy. My rush of emotion grows as his slowly ebbs, until it climaxes in the folds of the net. The hook slips free, and he slides back to the cold caress of the river as the smile on my face blossoms in the sun.

Another of many days that I will feel that cutting wind upon my face as I turn toward home. Five, six months? Nature alone knows how many days will pass before I once more sit quietly in the grass and watch the silken flow of bright water in hope of a subtle ring…

It is the twenty-first of November, the last day of the month’s third week, and a light snowfall caresses Crooked Eddy. Two seasons indeed: dry fly season and winter.

Saturday was the opening day of New York’s whitetail deer season, and JA and I wandered into the forest in darkness as per our tradition. I began with lofty goals, planning to stay out late into the morning and certain I was overdressed. The fierce winds saw to it that I didn’t make it. JA stuck it out for the duration, though neither of us saw hide nor hair of a deer.

The afternoon was better, the sun having warmed the landscape somewhat with the wind lessened, though still strong. Our fortunes failed to improve, though our attitudes were just fine. JA already has his New Jersey archery buck in the freezer and I, well, I long ago learned not to expect luck in deer hunting. The importance of the day remained on solid ground: two good friends sharing an outdoor tradition.

The weather is working hard to compromise the Thanksgiving holiday for all of those thousands of souls bent upon travelling to celebrate with family and friends. We’ll be right here in Crooked Eddy while the snow, rain or whatever else comes down and keep a warm and quiet holiday.

My concern for travel is limited to short trips to and from the mountains as the next couple of weeks of this deer season unfold. It’s not that I expect to even see a deer, other than those I routinely encounter driving to and from the hunt or here eating the grass and clover in my yard, but I appreciate the chance to get out on the mountain alone with my thoughts and hunt them.

I was hoping to find some snow early this morning, planning to head to the mountain if I did. I learned how much I enjoy hunting in falling snow during my decades living in Pennsylvania. There is a unique silence that’s almost there surrounding you, the sound of stillness, punctuated by the whispers of the snowflakes.

I saw the first hint of ice on the edges of some emergent boulders as I drove along the East Branch this morning; yet another sign that winter expects to stay awhile. The news feeds have been talking about a long, cold, snowy winter for the northeast, and I keep hoping they are off at least a little in their predictions. I would love to have a few snowy mornings to try to track a buck, but to match my ideal that snow would melt before nightfall. Icy mountain trails are not made for old men wandering aloft in the dark!

A sixty-degree day in mid-November; how could I resist the call to the river? Yes, a few hard frosts had caused the water temperatures to plummet, and in such cases the mind calculates the odds of actually taking trout, finding them low indeed. It is not the mind that draws me to the river when the Red Gods dangle such a clear, bright day in winter, it is the soul!

Of course, the tease was evident by way of a pair of tiny insects, drifting here and there, and even occasional soft rises from equally tiny fish. I remained content to swing my flies, never truly expecting the tug that dreams are made of.

Within an hour, the deep chill of winter had made it through the sheath of waders and wool and fleece, and on into my bones, but the warm air still delighted something deeper inside, even wading down as the river was enveloped in shade.

I lingered on the riverbank, where the rays of that gorgeous sun brought life and sensation back to my legs, lingered as the last moments of that glowing warmth saturated my being.

The hard frost yesterday morning retreated slowly from the gathering sunshine. The leaves underfoot still crunched an alarm, broadcasting my presence in the forest as per my desire. Hunting Ruffed Grouse the hard way (there isn’t an easy way if you were wondering) involves walking them up, and damp, silent conditions are not the best for this dogless gunner’s tactic. Better the hunter make some noise, moving slowly no more than a dozen steps at a time, with long pauses to let a bird sit and worry, wondering where you are.

I have the habit of stirring one foot through the leaves before taking the first step after each pause, for more than once a grouse has been waiting and listening during the pause and erupts in a thunder of wingbeats when he hears that leaf rattle. That tactic worked on the last bird of the morning, but let’s not get away from ourselves.

I began with a short walk along a newer path beside the brook, that is until it petered out into a steep sloping extension of the bank. I climbed then, up a short, workable grade to the rocks on top, guardians along the well-worn trail that runs high above the sparkling rill. My decision was whether to head north or south then, and the suspicion that some birds might be hanging near where I found them on my season opening hunt made the choice easy. I had no more than turned south when I heard the rush of wings, softer than expected, further off and shielded by the music of bright waters rollicking over their pebble bed. I never saw that bird depart.

I managed my dozen steps then, only to see a single flash of light and shadow through the trees, as two more birds flushed low and headed south, one after the other. Fifteen minutes into the morning walk and three birds on the wing, just one of them barely visible for a split second, the other pair ghosts! I didn’t make it through my second move when number four was heard, once more out of range at the flush, and unseen.

Shaking my head with a wry smile I moved through to the main trail, hopeful as I felt all four had headed south, that I knew where they were going.

Of course, old Ruff isn’t known to be predictable, so I kept that smile on my face as I crossed the main trail and eased into my favorite little covert. This place has a bit of everything: mature trees, young saplings, heavy ground vegetation, deadfalls and brush piles, an old stone wall and one steep little ravine. Wildlife in general likes it there, and so does Mr. Ruff. One of those four flushed birds even used a patch of that thick ground vegetation to flush again, unseen, and depart on whispering wings.

I had planned to set up in this area for Saturday’s opening day of deer season, there being ample sign of a buck or two using the area recently. I chose a stand by the old stone wall, where two gnarled old trees stood as sentinels, kicking away the dried leaves to expose the soft, dark, quiet soil to keep my vigil silent. At my age, sitting like a statue is a thing of the past, so I like to be able to stand and take a step to watch either side while easing cold, stiff muscles and joints.

I gathered some deadfall limbs and built a simple screen in front of my little hide, then hunted back through that covert in case another of those invisible grouse was lurking in the far corner.

I walked out into the intervening field and crossed to begin a hunt through the Thornapple Covert. The mountain rains were gracious here this summer, and the trees held a good crop of fruit. The springy ground held enough water to puddle here and there and run along a slight rock-lined trace through the terrain. Food and water in heavy cover can be a magnet for grouse, and I did find one at the far end of the cover. He was the only bird to flush close, thundering aloft right in front of me, and completely screened by the trees and cover. You guessed it, my old eyes never caught so much as the flash of a single feather as he flew safely away.

Half a dozen flushes and I never so much as got the gun to my shoulder. That indeed is grouse hunting!

A glimpse of a speckled cream CDL tailing feather in the corner of my tying desk brought to mind the final pattern required for my A.I. (Atherton Inspired) series of hatch matching flies early this morning, and I wasted no time in blending the appropriate dubbing and tying half a dozen A.I. Light Cahills.

The series will now span the season, covering the major mayfly hatches: Quill Gordon, Blue Quill, Hendrickson, March Brown, Light Cahill and Isonychia. But wait, haven’t I left out the ubiquitous sulfurs and the majestic Green Drakes? Actually no, and yes. Drakes and sulfurs were the first two mayflies to be dealt with when my interest in John Atherton’s flies and theories put me on the road to combining his theories with my own.

When I acquired a supply of seals fur last winter, I prepared a dubbing blend for Green Drakes and sulfurs, using seal, beaver and fox furs of varied colors in accordance with Mr. Atherton’s theories. Later I also blended a similarly concocted Heritage Red dubbing that was applicable to the flies I call the Beaver Kill Hendrickson, as well as Red Quills and even Isonychia mayflies. When added to the selection of A. I. blends, these allow a very complete coverage of mayfly hatches.

My biggest challenge is thoroughly testing all of the experimental patterns I tie each season. Some hatches appear only sparingly and, even though I fish one hundred or more days per year, I don’t always get a chance to fish them. My tactics for proving new designs complicate things further, as I only go to an experimental pattern when a proven, commonly used fly fails to take a good trout. The purpose of my experimentation is to develop flies that take the most difficult trout, thus they should be reserved for instances where my usual patterns fail. I hope I will be granted the grace to live long enough to prove or disprove all of my fly tying designs.

Another season has come to a close and my mind recalls the memories made upon bright water. A look through the logbook I keep details the fishing, the flies tied and those new patterns and variations designed throughout the season. Moments shine as I read through those entries.

Each season has two beginnings, for I do wander the rivers on a handful of days each winter, with the beginning of dry fly season being the day most celebrated. Thus, this season began on the seventh of February, swinging a new winter pattern – the Dazed Dace, on the West Branch Delaware. The winter release had been lowered rather drastically, and I had to maintain concentration as the fly bounced off the rocks that stirred the skinny water of the run.

Cold water takes on a slowly swung fly are generally just another of those little bumps. Bouncing over a submerged limb, I felt that wonderful rubbery feeling as the loop of slack line between stripping guide and reel slipped from my fingers and raised the cane rod smoothly, pulling tight into a substantial fish. The old warrior fought well, heavy and darkly bronzed in winter’s cold, gray light, he measured twenty inches even in the net, inaugurating my season perfectly!

I began my riverbank vigil for that second season opener in the 62-degree sunshine of late March, finally finding it precisely at the end of my annual 100-day countdown on the tenth of April. The Beaver Kill surrendered a nineteen-inch brown and a pair just a bit smaller to my Leonard and Quill Gordon fly for a classic opening day of Catskill dry fly fishing.

In terms of the final tally of trophy sized trout taken, the 2023 season was very close to my average success over five full-time Catskill seasons, though it proved to be above average in one sense. Five remarkable trout were landed on the dry fly that measured a minimum of twenty-four inches long, the best a twenty-six inch brute that stands as my largest Catskill trout to be taken on a surface fly. Wild brown trout of such proportions are truly magnificent creatures, and I am blessed to have enjoyed their strength and spirit through the arch of my rod! Most of these fish were taken on classic tackle, and that makes their memories even more priceless to me.

There is truly no music so sweet as the wailing solo of a vintage Hardy reel when a wild, trophy trout dashes away from the arc of split bamboo!

Now my attention turns to late autumn in the mountains: a search for Ruffed Grouse and some precious hours chasing whitetails with a great friend. My winter pattern of fly design and tying has already begun, working to incorporate the impressionistic concepts of the late John Atherton into my own dry fly designs.

There are long months between seasons, days upon days I will while away at the vise or spend polishing flamed bamboo with loving hands. Throughout this time, memories will flood my consciousness and bring a smile to my winter-worn face, for such is part of the celebration of a life outdoors.

I have been moving on with my thoughts of expanding my “A.I.” or Atherton Inspired dubbing blends and flies, looking to take advantage of the multi-toned, sparkling and buggy combinations created to represent individual species of mayflies. Yesterday, I mixed a dubbing blend for an A.I. March Brown, and today another for the Blue Quills or Paraleptophlebia adoptiva.

I have recounted the success this past spring fishing the first such pattern, the one dubbed the A.I. Hendrickson. There are simply times when a buggy, more impressionistic fly gets better responses from the trout. Whether it is something to do with light intensity or penetration, or insect behavior on a given day, I will never know. The results were impressive enough that I will give the recently created Isonychia, March Brown and Blue Quill versions significant time on the water come spring 2024.

My best guess is that a buggy, bubble encrusted fly body may visually suggest a struggling, emerging mayfly, an easy target for a trout feeding efficiently on a hatch. Going back to English writings from a century ago, I have seen that theory applied to the classic Hare’s ear flies, both dries and wets. I think those gents were onto something!

To date, I have used the A.I. blends to tie some of my 100-Year Duns. Trout have taken them hard on many occasions, furthering my belief in the struggling mayfly idea. The next step in the process will be to tie a few CDC duns in A.I. garb to see what our Catskill browns will think of them. If they take the buggy, muti-toned blends as struggling emergers, the addition of a CDC wing’s movement ought to excite them even further.

I am working my way through the withdrawal that challenges each autumn, taking small steps toward some kind of normalcy. I began the long overdue process of reorganizing my tying room for winter yesterday, by getting rid of some of the accumulated non-fishing materials. There is a lot more work to do.

I sorted through some of my hooks, hoping to order a substantial re-stock of the Sprite dry fly hooks I have used over the past few years. It seems my only choice is to place an international order and the shipping aspect makes it less than feasible.

I have been thinking ahead, intrigued by the success of the A.I. flies I tied and fished this season, I am planning to expand the idea into a series of patterns for several hatches. My Translucence Series will get some adjustments as well, including some refinements to a few of the silk dubbing blends. Experimenting with trout flies is always a big part of my winter sustenance for the soul.

This was my second season tying and fishing the smallest 100-Year Duns, sizes 16, 18 and 20. The design has proven itself to be highly effective in taking selective trout, in fact one of the most impressive tests came during the peak of the Hendrickson hatch. There was one fish sipping in a nearly impossible lie that wouldn’t look at a Hendrickson. I calmed my enthusiasm enough to take note of the fact that I had not seen that trout take a live Hendrickson, despite their predominating numbers. There had been a couple of brief appearances of blue winged olives during the day, so I offered that trout a size 18 100-Year Dun and landed the best brown of the spring!

Ah experiments! What to do this winter: a size 22 100-Year Dun? No, I think 20 is the practical limit for a wood duck feather wing. Perhaps a minuscule Century Dun? There is no telling what the Winter madness might spawn!

I took my first riverwalk of the season just now, the same path I tread throughout the winter. It is a bright afternoon, clear blue skies above and a chill to the air. I had toyed with the idea of driving out to the river to swing a few flies for an hour or two, to make the most of the 55-degree sunshine, but the passion simply isn’t there. The end of the dry fly season feels hopeless and uninspired when I finally must accept that the end has truly come.

Transitions can be difficult for those impassioned by bright water. Life has been bright and vivid for seven months, always with a new challenge, some new source of excitement, and then, suddenly, the light of bright water goes out for a time. I know it will not last, that acceptance of the change will come after some time upon the mountainsides, but now the loss burns deeply.